Touch
by Jen ConsultingWriters
Summary: Sherlock walks in on Mycroft masturbating. Holmescest. Second of a five-part series: Kiss, Touch, Taste, Give, Take. May be read as a stand-alone.


_**An exploration of the relationship between the Holmes brothers, from their childhood to adulthood, and linking into canon. Holmescest. Warnings in this section for explicit masturbation. Sherlock is of legal age from hereon in.**_

_**Posted in separate parts due to the differing ratings, warnings, and escalations of relationship that may not be palatable for some readers.  
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_**Dedicated to Lex, without whom this story would not exist.**_

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Sherlock was spectacularly bored. He had just received his O-level results, managing a full house of A's. He was aware of his own intellect, and equally his ineptitude with others. He was unpopular to the point of ostracism, and was prepared to enter sixth form with that situation remaining precisely as it was.

The holidays were usually of interest to Sherlock. Not like every other child his age; they all wanted to switch off their brains, let them rot. Sherlock wanted his brain alive, and singing, and working constantly. School made his brain fester more than the holidays; when he had free time, he was able to work and do extraordinary things.

Mycroft was home for the holidays, too, and that was always excellent. His brother was the only person who could equal him intellectually; even, though Sherlock was loath to admit it, surpass him. And Mycroft – although he was beginning to work full time for the government these days – somehow always made time to visit in the holidays.

They had spent the day toasting Sherlock's results; Sherlock's parents were a little scathing about Sherlock, with his IQ, not getting full marks across the board – but mostly, they seemed satisfied. Mycroft was simply charming about all of it, congratulating Sherlock with a slightly mocking raised eyebrow, toasting him with a glass of unreasonably expensive Champagne.

He had disappeared rather abruptly, excusing himself from the evening with a gentle bow and his usual elegance. He seemed to avoid looking at Sherlock, but then, Sherlock had always been a little paranoid concerning his elder brother. Mycroft was notoriously hard to read.

Sherlock said his farewells and retired shortly after Mycroft did, traipsing up to their shared wing of the estate. Mycroft's room was a few doors down from his own, shut as always, guarding the mysteries of his elder brother from sight or prying minds.

Sherlock hesitated outside his room, fingers tracing the dark wood, a mere few inches separating them. He had barely seen his brother, in what felt like an eternity. As Mycroft's job had overtaken his life, he had been around far less in his younger brother's life. Sherlock missed him, far more than he wished to admit.

He reached for the handle, twisting it experimentally, just in case. He hadn't knocked once in his life, and didn't intend to begin now. He was surprised; Mycroft was usually so intensely meticulous about locking his doors, but today, he appeared to have forgotten. Intensely lax of him, Sherlock mused, pushing open the door on its oiled hinges.

Sherlock's breath caught. Mycroft was splayed across his large bed, trousers kicked away to lie in a crumpled heap along with his underwear at the foot of the bed, still wearing his crisp white shirt and suit jacket, sleeves pulled up to the elbows.

Sherlock had never been overly interested in masturbation. He had never really found the need. He had sexual desires, naturally, but they were severely tempered by his overly logical brain. Logic outweighed emotion, in particular sexually-orientated emotion.

Mycroft had always been more intelligent than his brother. He understood that it was best to indulge some desires, lest they linger and become virulent. Abstinence from all desires was almost never appropriate.

Therefore, he took great joy in indulgence of his baser needs. Fingers teasing up his shaft, pressing and squeezing, rock hard and red, weeping with need. Sherlock wet his lips, softly shutting the door behind him. Mycroft's eyes were tightly shut, too wrapped up in his physical sensations to notice the door click very softly opposite him.

Sherlock padded on velvet feet, shifting so he was slightly less conspicuous and out of immediate eyeshot, leaning against a bookshelf. Mycroft's hand closed around his length, and he let out a self-indulgent groan.

Sherlock gasped lightly; his own cock, usually unresponsive, was beginning to twitch. He had tried watching pornography before, but it rarely elicited much of a response. Apparently, watching his brother start to thrust into his own fist was more than enough to garner a response.

His brother was usually so refined, so impossibly upper-class. He was never crude, nor vulgar. It was like watching a fallen angel; somebody so pristine, so perfect, reduced to something so basically human and desperate.

Mycroft groaned again, as he started to gather speed. Sherlock couldn't help himself, and, quite frankly, didn't want to. He undid the button on his flies, pushing a hand beneath his boxers and feeling his own need, throbbing under his hand.

He panted slightly, the sensations almost alien after so long without touches like that, without the feel of warmth and heat and friction.

Mycroft arched off the bed, and Sherlock mimicked him; every twist of Mycroft's hands, every teasing stroke and light touch, was perfectly imitated. Sherlock may not have had much experience, but damn, Mycroft did. He knew exactly what was required, how fast, how hard.

Mycroft was grunting slightly, Sherlock trying to suppress any of his own noises in case Mycroft hear, in case he _saw_. Sherlock was thrusting madly now, supporting himself on the bookshelf, back arching in tandem with Mycroft's.

"There, keep it there," Mycroft ordered, voice rich with command, his brain supplying a host of glorious images, a body above him, giving him everything he needed. "Fuck me, fuck me _harder_."

Sherlock caught a whimper as it tried to force its way out of his throat, his thrusts becoming almost painful. He imagined doing exactly that, being the one fucking his brother, being the one allowed to touch his brother like that. Jesus, he had always imagined Mycroft being in the dominating role; imagining _taking_ Mycroft… that was, well, impossible to imagine. He wanted it more than anything he could imagine.

"Come for me," Mycroft whispered, soft, and yet still an absolute, unequivocal command, travelling like lightening across the room.

Sherlock couldn't have done a thing if he'd tried. The order sank into his bones and his blood and his heart and his soul, and he came with a cry in absolute unison with his elder brother.

Sherlock was lost in aftershocks that were draining his entire brain of coherent thought. Mycroft was able to drag himself out of the fog with considerably less difficulty, triggered by the sound he was almost certain he had heard from somewhere by his bookshelf.

He opened his eyes at the noise Sherlock made; he twisted around, sitting up, seeing his younger brother with his hands down his trousers, face painted with the blissful, dazed look of somebody who had just experienced quite a spectacular orgasm.

Mycroft's brain ran through several, not very promising thought trails at once. His brother had just come through watching him masturbate. The true issue was in that Mycroft could still see his imagined scenario, the moment that had made him orgasm, imagining a certain somebody above him, taking him, using him.

He couldn't afford this. He could not allow himself to feel this. He had been imagining his little brother, seeing him, wanting him, since Sherlock had kissed him so long ago. He had never dared to imagine what would happen if Sherlock wanted him back, it was far too dangerous for him.

"Get out!" Mycroft yelled at him. "Get out, get out, _get out_."

Sherlock, still feeling utterly dazed, did as he was told. He could barely see straight. All he could see, or hear, or think, was his elder brother. "Mycroft," Sherlock stuttered, pulling his hand out of his trousers, wiping it en route.

"No, Sherlock, just _no_," Mycroft said frantically, pulling the covers over his bare legs and crotch. "Sherlock… why are you even in here?!"

"I just… Mycroft, oh _Mycroft_, I just…"

"No, Sherlock," Mycroft said emphatically. "You are my brother, and it is horribly inappropriate for you to be in here, without… why in the name of God were you _watching_?"

"Because nothing has ever made me feel like this," Sherlock said simply. "It's _you_, Mycroft. All the other plebeians in this world… you and I, we're different, and I need you, Mycroft."

Mycroft was struck literally speechless. "Sherlock… Sherlock, are you seriously implying… I'm your _brother_."

"And?" Sherlock asked belligerently, taking a brave step forward towards the bed. Mycroft hissed at him, apparently losing grasp of his refinement in favour of utterly panicking.

"You are sixteen. I am your brother. I am seven years older than you, for god's sake. You should not be in here, watching me… watching me… Sherlock, just go," Mycroft said eventually, his voice laden with sadness. "Get out of here."

"I don't want to go," Sherlock said softly, looking up at Mycroft through long lashes, his bright blue eyes electric. "My, I want to stay with you."

"You don't. You do not mean that," Mycroft contradicted easily. "I am your _brother_. And even if I wasn't, what the hell could you ever see in me?"

"You're intelligent, and you're brilliant. You're the only person in the world who will ever understand me, or even _like_ me."

"I have a boyfriend," Mycroft suddenly pointed out, looking about as surprised as Sherlock did. Sherlock actually looked more like Mycroft had punched him, extremely hard, in the face.

"You what?" Sherlock asked, inelegantly. Mycroft would have rolled his eyes or been otherwise sarcastic, but was predominantly concerned with the thought of the man he was currently in a relationship with.

"It's not that surprising, Sherlock. I have had partners before, I have been with people…"

"I haven't," Sherlock said, incredibly softly, still looking straight at Mycroft unerringly. "I want to be with you, My. You were my first kiss, and I would prefer for you to be my first in everything."

Mycroft wasn't sure how to respond, which was really very new for him. This was utterly wrong. Beyond all conception, this was completely wrong.

At the same time, he wanted it so badly he was aching, literally aching. He wanted his brother, wanted to see Sherlock arch beneath him, beg for him, to bury himself in Sherlock's body and be the one to place that dazed, blissful expression on his face. He wanted to see Sherlock continue his life, hold him close and be there through his social ineptitudes and sparkling brilliance.

He wanted everything Sherlock was, and everything he could ever be. Aspects he would have through being a brother, supporting Sherlock and loving him fraternally. Other aspects he could only imagine, for both of their sakes.

Sherlock was in front of him, inches away. Mycroft was uncomfortably aware that he was still naked under the duvet, and that Sherlock's hand was a little sticky and there was just the slightest stain through his trousers.

Sherlock leaned forward, and kissed him. It was everything and nothing like the kiss two years ago, when Sherlock had still been a child and Mycroft had been busy with university and it had been a simple and sweet, beautiful moment.

This was filled with passion, and need, and want. There was no way it could be construed as anything else. Their lips parted, tongues battled – and Mycroft noted that Sherlock really had worked out what to do with the tongues – and the pair dived into the kiss with all the passion at their disposal.

Mycroft's hands knotted in Sherlock's clothes, pulling his closer, pulling him in, letting them fall together.

Sherlock's hands started ranging, tracking Mycroft's body. "How could I not love you?" Sherlock whispered against his mouth, smiling, pushing him back to lie on the bed.

Mycroft remembered with a sudden, horrifying jolt exactly where he was, and what he was doing. "No, _no_ Sherlock, get off. Just, hang on a moment."

Sherlock pulled away, sitting up, letting his usually composed elder brother curl up with the duvet over his lap and a suspicious expression on his face. "Sherlock, we can't do this. We really can't."

"You want this as much as I do," Sherlock said, his voice low and gravelly. "You know me, and I know you just as well. You'll never find anybody else who will understand you, or care for you, like I do."

"Shit, Sherlock, no. We can't do this. Stop it," he said frantically. "Look, Sherlock. Listen to me."

Sherlock looked at him firmly, expression intensely serious. "Yes?" he asked quietly, breathing deeply, heavily. Lust was written in every line of his posture, and Mycroft could tell he wanted more than a kiss. It was taking every ounce of self-control for Mycroft not to happily reciprocate.

"You're sixteen," Mycroft tried again. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow, looking intensely sceptical. Mycroft sighed, trying to work out how to vocalise the thoughts throbbing in his head. "We wait. We need to wait until you're at least eighteen. We can't do this now. If you still wish to be with me then, we can discuss it."

"I don't want to talk about it," Sherlock said firmly. "I am not going to change my mind. If you're going to be a bloody idiot about this Myc, that's fine, but I will be back here when I turn eighteen, and you will listen to me. You cannot run from this, Mycroft."

"I'm not…"

Sherlock kissed him, more gently this time. He pulled back, raising one elegant eyebrow. Mycroft could see the challenge. Sherlock didn't honestly believe he would last that long, wouldn't last all the way to him turning eighteen. Mycroft wasn't sure he could either.

Sherlock was so, impossibly beautiful. He was still so young, so perfect, and still so innocent. He bordered on naïve. He needed to go have a life, find other people, learn that his brother was not everything. Mycroft was trying to do the same, trying to be with other people so he could forget about the black curls, white skin and full lips of the one person he could never have.

Sherlock stood, crossing to the door. "I believe dinner will be at seven thirty, as usual. I'll see you then," he said, business-like, and vanished out the door.

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_**To be continued in "Taste".**_

_**Reviews and concrit are incredibly appreciated, if you have a moment.**_


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